


All the Back Roads

by Gemz0rz



Series: Every Path [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Beginnings, Bowtie, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemz0rz/pseuds/Gemz0rz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel AND a sequel of sorts to "This is Taking Chances, This is Almost Touching," in which Clint's early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. are covered, Phil is promoted, Natasha is recruited, relationships are navigated, and it only takes one person to prove that they were all meant to be exactly where they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please buckle your seatbelts and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Exits are here, here, here, here... anywhere! ¡Por favor manténgase alejado de las puertas!
> 
> ...Anyhow. This is going to be a much longer attempt at navigating the world my subconscious created in the first work of this series. They ARE best read in order, if you're finding this first. (If you're blatantly disregarding this advice, please note that Clint is roughly 24 as our story begins.)
> 
> This piece is going to be both darker and more explicit, please note. Updates are planned weekly at the least, but will likely appear twice a week at times.

**6 months previous to Portland:**

Clint slid down the concrete-grey sheets, bracing one rough palm on either side of her hips before dragging her into place.

It was unspoken that she let him position her. It was just as unspoken that she could even more easily kill him in this position than the one before.

Clint knew full well that she had his life between her thighs, and that was half the thrill. His eyes met hers in the wan light, but could only parse about as much of the meaning behind them as he usually could.

Which was to say… none.

It didn’t matter. He wanted her for reasons that were in turns unsavoury and mysterious, even to him. They killed, yes. Not together, never together, but they were the same in that way, and the black hole that was her moral compass was more intriguing than anything he’d ever encountered. Part of him aspired to be worthy of her. Part of him aspired to save her. Part of him wanted to fuck her into the mattress.

That part of him twitched against his thigh as she stirred, shifting restlessly above him.

She made no sound as he raised his head, the sleek muscles of his neck standing out in low relief as he swiped his tongue up the valley of her slit. What she did do was sink her hands into his hair, nails trailing his scalp as she positioned him to her liking.

He shook his head once, and when she made no move to let go, his hands left her hips to find the slim columns of her wrists, pinning them to her sides.

She could best him in this, too… but she didn’t. She just rocked her hips, arching to find the heat of his mouth again, her hair painting red shadows down over her shoulders, and he grinned against the inside of her thigh before biting down.

Natasha made a sound this time, a low shuddering groan, and her hair brushed the ladder of her spine as her head tipped back.

Clint’s grin melted into something darker, something much more determined, and he growled as her delved back into her folds, unsurprised to find a rush of wetness meet his tongue. Her thighs strained, likely with the effort of not closing, and she fought for dominance even now, riding the movements of his mouth in near silence.

Clint wasn’t having it. He transferred two slim wrists to one hand, the other wrapping around her hip in such a way that he could threaten a pressure point at the inside of her hip with his thumb, holding her in place. It was so different from the grip he kept on his bow. That was light and even, this was tight and demanding. Though he knew it wouldn't last long on her pale skin, he hoped to leave a bruise.

And then he took her until he could hear her. It wasn’t enough to be allowed this, to know that this was part of no job, no hit. _No_. He needed to hear her. He curled his tongue against her, offering no respite from his wants – and from his acceptance of her – and not for the first time, it was the danger of intimacy that did more for her than the talents of his mouth.

Natasha shook above him, reaching deceptively high pitches before she pushed him away.

Clint only relaxed when she did. When the sleek lines of tension melted from her muscled thighs, when her shoulders rolled forward in as much of a slump as she ever assumed, only then did he let go of her wrists, licking a hot stripe against her hip as he began to move back up.

He needn’t have bothered; she curved down to meet him, her small hands tight at his shoulders as she pinned him to the mattress.

“Another four inches and I could have a pillow under my head, you know.”

She just rolled her eyes and said something in Russian, not letting him move an inch as she smoothed a condom down his length.

“You’re such a romantic.” His words didn’t hold the right amount of vitriol; it was obvious he wanted her even through the façade of brutal efficiency.

“Love is for children, любимый.” Even as she said it, the tip of her nose traced tenderly up the angle of his jaw. Her smell was a mixture of sweat and perfume and the coppery tang of blood, and he arched into it, rutting his cock against the soft curve of her hip as she stretched over him.

“This doesn’t have to have anything to do with love, _любимый_.” He returned the pet name that he didn’t understand in a poor imitation of her accent, and she laughed low and throaty against his ear.

“You’re right.” Clint keened as her teeth found his earlobe, worrying it with just the right amount of tension. “This is mostly professional.”

He looked at her sharply as she melted back down, one sure hand guiding him between her legs, and if she hadn’t chose that moment to sink down onto him, he might’ve asked what else it was. As things were, he was lucky he remembered his name. _(It was Clint. Probably.)_

“Still with me, cowboy?” Tasha crooked an arm behind her, unlatching her bra as she began to ride him, and Clint _(or Buster or Ian or whoever the hell he was)_ curled up to capture one rosy nipple between his teeth.

She hadn't believed in cowboys once. He'd changed that. She couldn't decide if she hated him for it.

“I am _so_ here, darlin’. Believe me.” He bucked his hips once to prove his point, smiling up at her, and her only response was to ride him harder, a particularly fierce swivel of her hips making her breath catch.

Clint was no fool. He knew who was in charge here. He just didn’t care.

* * * * *

Later, when Natasha had given up looking for her underwear, and instead slid bare into the smooth second skin of her leather pants, Clint checked the rounds in his gun under her watchful gaze. It wasn’t his favourite, but he wasn’t dumb enough to miss its usefulness, and he strapped it to his ankle beneath his cargo pants. His quiver sat propped in the corner, away from the fray of the evening, and he carefully strapped it back into place as Natasha yanked her hair back into an unforgiving bun. She looked like a ballerina, a vision from some hellish movement, some angel of death prepared to waft feather-light across a stage.

Clint knew that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s the rush, Red? Hot date?” This was the part where he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and she studiously ignored him.

“Yes, actually.”

Clint’s eyebrows raised at the sheer fact that she’d answered him, let alone the logistics of what she’d just confessed to.

“But we… you just…” He stared at her. Exclusivity was never on the table, he’d known that, but he needed a sleep and a steak before he could think about going again. "I think I'd be offended if I wasn't so damn impressed." Natasha rolled her eyes, ever happy to mock his delicate male sensibilities.

“I’ve got a hit.” She froze, slim fingers still at the buckle of her holster belt. “In fact, I could use a second man out there.”

Clint smartly said nothing. This was the first time that it wasn’t about sex or a competition between them, and he was wary.

“Thomas Pritchard,” she elaborated carefully, sensing his reluctance. “A double agent who’s crossed his benefactor behind their back.” She didn’t say who he worked for, or who he’d screwed over, and Clint fixed her with a stare that had nothing to do with the way leather hugged her curves.

“…Not this time,” he said after a long moment. He knew better than to take intel from one likely-biased source, and to be honest, he wasn’t invested in much in this god-forsaken town. Dresden had great beer, but he was quickly finding that there wasn’t much else here for him – not including the redhead across the room. The hit he’d been sent on looked to be a dead end.

Natasha shrugged, a tiny, feline movement that he was half sure he’d imagined.

“Suit yourself.”

“I always do,” he drawled, clutching his bow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fast forward two years from Portland:**

“You wanted to see me, Sir…?”

“Drop the bullshit, would you, Coulson?” Director Fury’s smile was dangerous and fleeting as he crossed to shake his hand, and Phil knew well how rare an expression it was. “As you may know, I’ve got a government agency to run, so I’ll make this short and sweet: we’re raising your pay grade.”

Phil had been present for other agents’ promotions before, and they were usually about as climactic as watching paint dry. Standing in parade rest, he was silent as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“…You know you’re about the only one around here who’d have nothing to say to that?”

The Director sounded dryly amused, and somewhere on the other side of the mainframe computer display Phil swore he heard Agent Hill snort.

“What am I supposed to say, Sir?”

“No one likes a smartass, Cheese.” One eye glared at him, but Phil knew better than to mistake it for real trouble.

“So I hear.”

At the absence of the word “Sir,” a flicker of a smile crossed Fury’s lips, and he scooped up a grey folder that Phil had assumed was past his clearance. He should have known better.

“I’d like you to look this file over. You don’t have to take it, but I think you should.”

* * * * *

Clint was two minutes early to the meeting Phil had placed on his schedule. Or that’s what he thought; Phil saw it as being 3 minutes late.

“Agent Barton. Come in.” Phil closed the file that had been open on his desk, stowing it away and turning a key to lock the drawer before folding his hands atop the bare space he’d left. “Sit, would you?”

“Is this going to take long?” Though he hadn't seen him in the halls for the two months Phil had been away, he purposely made no move for the chair, his hands hanging at his sides in loose fists. This was what he’d been waiting for over the past two years, sure that every day would hold this: the day he was finally fired. Home was a concept he’d given up on long ago, but things here at S.H.I.E.L.D. were nice enough. For the first time since he was a child, some part of him wished it didn’t have to be this way, that he could be useful without having to be someone else.

That shit got tiring real fast.

“Suit yourself,” Coulson replied, unruffled as he purposely didn’t rise to the bait.

Clint’s mouth twitched. Of course they’d tasked the one operative he halfway liked to do the job; no one ever said the Director didn’t play dirty.

“I have a proposition for you…”

Well, _that_ hadn’t been what he was expecting. The only people who ever said that were lawyers, and the prostitutes that had picked the phrase up from lawyers. Some of the guys had those sorts of women on the side at the circus… Clint had no experience ever taking one up on her offers, and he sure as hell hadn’t listened to that lousy court-appointed lawyer when he was 17. Likewise, he had no intention of walking into Coulson’s trap now.

“I’ve read your file, Barton. You’d had problems with the last four handlers we’ve placed you with.” He pulled off the reading glasses he’d been prescribed the year previous, and the archer swallowed. “Believe me when I say that those were some of our finest agents. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

That stung more than any of the reprimands during his tenure here so far, and the worst part was that it felt like the truth. Saying nothing in response, he concentrated on not tightening his fists at his sides, knowing Phil was easily too good to miss a tell like that.

“You should also believe me when I say that I think you’re the asset of the decade. Or… you could be.” Coulson’s gaze was deceptively mild as he regarded the blonde in front of him. “Your skills are already more than significant for an agent your age, and you’ve seen the tools we have to offer. You could be even better, Barton.”

Clint blinked at the way he said his name, uncomfortable with the praise. Phil must have known that, because he sighed and moved on.

“I’ve been promoted to Level 7 clearance, which in effect means I won’t be working the field anymore.”

And thank god the marksman had a hard lifetime of learning to school his features into an unreadable mask, because this was possibly the first thing in his two years and seven weeks with S.H.I.E.L.D. that he’d actually cared about. Phil was a damn fine field agent. Clint only had the privilege of working with him once, and they’d been the tensest three hours of his life. Sure, he’d only been the backup to the backup, crouched there on that rooftop in case the shot needed to be made, but knowing Coulson’s life was on the line – knowing he was at least partially responsible for the only person who’d ever demonstrated real, continuing trust in him – had been the first thing to make him properly nervous in this line of work.

It wasn’t like this turn of events was a surprise, though; trust or not, he wasn’t made for permanence, and this was no different. The only problem was what to do now that he was finally being let go. He’d sort of screwed himself in the crime department. Or maybe not. He knew the ins and outs of S.H.I.E.L.D., knew the hallmarks of several of their supposed best agents… he could probably stay ahead of them for a while.

_…Probably._

“Agent Barton?” Phil was looking at him, and the iota of an expression that coloured his face was equal parts exasperation and concern.

“Sorry, Sir.” For once, he actually was. Coulson fixed him with an unbroken look before continuing.

“As I was saying… Clearance 7 allows me to act as handler to any agent I so choose to take on.”

There was a beat, and then Clint sat.

Coulson didn’t so much as tilt his head; he wouldn’t patronise the archer for praising him when he took a seat. He just waited.

“You’re taking on my case?”

“I wasn’t aware you had a --”

“Don’t try and tell me four handlers in two years is normal.”

Phil glared at him, the thinly hidden subtext naming him a liar.

“Intel is only so useful, agent. When we recruited you, I wasn’t aware you had such a problem with authority. If I’d have guessed, I might’ve requested to take up the post of your handler two years ago.”

Clint’s mouth opened, then closed, not having said anything. Because _really_ , wasn’t this just fucking perfect? The suit in front of him -- the only decent agent on _and_ off the field, as far as he was concerned – wanted to go to bat for him. He had a hunch that if he were to look up “authority” in the dictionary, as much as most around here might expect to find a picture of old Patches, Phil’s might be more appropriate.

And that scared him.

The last time he’d wanted so badly to do what someone said, the last time he’d purposefully sought out approval, he’d ended up beaten and betrayed. The circus he’d called home had packed up and left without him, his mentor hostile as he’d literally left him in the dust. It was hard to imagine Phil ever leaving him like that... but he’d never find out if he never gave him the chance.

But he _wanted_ to. He never got what he wanted, and suddenly he was rebellious of that fact, bitter for every failed seed of hope in his life. Reckless, maybe. What did it matter _who_ he died for? There wasn’t much of a life after S.H.I.E.L.D., and in his head, Coulson was the type of man who inspired loyalty. He certainly inspired other things.

“So… what? Just like that, you’re going to give me another chance?” It sounded suspicious when he said it out loud, and he tensed in his chair.

“I’m not going to give you anything, Agent Barton. We are going to start at square one. I will personally oversee you as you retake each of your certifications --” A look silenced Clint’s protest. “—and only when we’re _both_ comfortable with this will you be put back on active duty.”

Phil was met with silence, but he sat staring serenely back at the archer.

Clint was reeling inside from the way Phil said “we” like they were a team, a thing of precision and nature, and he finally crumbled, feeling both weak and exhilarated at his decision.

“…Okay.” The word almost stuck in his throat, his body’s last act of defiance at his lack of self-preservation.

The senior agent nodded simply, like that was the end of that overwrought and complicated topic.

“Good. We’ll start on Wednesday. I expect you to get some rest.” He retrieved a different file from his desk without looking, clicking open a regulation black pen with the other hand. “…I want you to learn to take care of yourself, Barton. You’re dismissed.”

There was a lilt to his tone that suggested fond exasperation, and Clint hoped he wasn’t imagining it.

“Yes, Sir,” came his reply, and for the first time in two weeks, sleep didn’t seem like it was so far away.


End file.
